The Fall
by nickeline
Summary: The charge scene and Captain Nicholls' death from his point of view. A quick, short one-shot. Read and review! :)


**Author's note: I just watched War Horse today, and I couldn't get this scene out of my mind. A quick, short one-shot. Enjoy :D**

**Disclaimer: I do not own these characters.**

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"Good luck, my friends."

It was a whisper, just loud enough for his two closest friends to hear. Charlie turned and shot him a grin. James nodded briefly.

"Forward, to walk! Walk... march!"

The flying column begin to move through the field, the rustle of the overgrown corn field muffling the sounds of their horses' hooves.

"Forward to canter! Canter... march!"

The pace was upped, and the horses soon entered a gallop. The thundering of their hooves growing louder as they drew closer to the Germans' camp. Jim stared straight ahead, the wind whistling wonderfully past his ears. Their cavalry finally emerged from the fields, and despite having left their buttons and buckles to dull, their swords glinted brightly in the sun.

"CHARGE!"

Jamie and Jim shouted in unison as they surged forward, their swords piercing through the air. Even as he yelled Jim could still hear the blood pounding in his ears. Right then at that moment everything around him blurred into the edges of his vision, and the only thing he could see was the back of his steed's head – it's beautiful mane, and the powerful muscles rippling through the horse's magnificent neck. It was like a bubble had formed around him, isolating him from the rest of the cavalry.

Then Jamie's hollers and commands pierced through that bubble and brutally yanked him back to reality.

He never told anybody that feeling he got every time they charged – he could never get used to that moment. He didn't want to think of it as a fear. _Fear was not fit for a captain like him._

The enemy's tents came into view and they were approaching fast. Jim tightened his grip on the reins. His face was a stoic mask, disguising the whirlwind of emotions raging within him.

Topthorn and Joey were leading the others just as they had during the practice the previous afternoon. Jim swung his sword, and he listened for the quick gasp or a grunt that would mark the end of an enemy's life. He always listened, never did he dare to _look_.

_Was that another sign of fear? Guilt, even? _

He pushed the thought aside as he urged Joey forwards, gritting his teeth. Tents were torn down, bodies trampled over, and shouts of anger and confusion filled the air. Jim's sword sliced and slashed swiftly and precisely, and he never looked back to see if the men he had struck were truly dead. They had marched right through the German camp, but continued chasing the surviving soldiers down into the woods.

_Had they won?_

Jim's heart swelled with triumph as he watched the Germans flee. But the battle was not over.

It was far from over.

A smudge of black amongst the forest trees caught his eye, and Jim craned his neck forward to see what it was. As their cavalry neared the edge of the woods more of the black contraptions came into view. They had been neatly arranged in a row, and were pointed right in their direction. Jim's heart lurched unpleasantly at the sudden realisation.

Those were _guns_.

And not just any gun, oh, no. They were huge, with belts of shining bullets lined along their pitch black flanks. Jim had no idea what these weapons that eventually came to be known as machine guns did, but he knew his men had underestimated their enemy by a wide margin.

The first round of bullets came slow, as though the gun-users themselves were unsure of how to use them. The bullets missed their marks, but not for long. The next rounds were fast and focused, and Jim watched in horror as a line of horses and his men fell. Amidst all the chaos he managed to catch of glimpse of Jamie's stunned face.

Then he saw it.

The ugly black gap of a mouth was aimed right at him. This time he didn't bother masking his face behind the valency he was so used to. His breath hitched. Fear gripped its cold claws around his young heart.

"Joey," he found himself saying. "Run, Joey. _Run_."

Then the bullets hit him.

The first one zipped by his face, grazing his cheek and tearing through his ear.

The second went into his good shoulder, and he hardly realised he'd dropped his sword.

The third lodged itself somewhere below his sternum, and he lost his balance and fell.

Joey kept running.

He landed heavily on his back. The impact knocked the air out of his lungs, and he gasped in pain. His cap which he had painfully starched that dawn lay crumpled a few feet away. His vision clouded, from the pain or from his tears, he could not tell. Something wet coated his fingers, and he realised he had been clutching his bleeding stomach. His uniform was damp with the dark liquid pouring out from the deep tear in his flesh. Jim coughed, and tasted blood. He let out a mangled, shaky sob, rolling to his side. Blood seeped through his fingers, staining the once-pristine green grass.

_Fear God. Honour the King!_

His breathing shallowed, and he found himself crying. He couldn't stop. Somebody dropped beside him, and he dimly wondered if it was one of his men to come aid him. _It's too late, now_, he wanted to say.

_Fear God._

He coughed out more blood. His body was flooded with pain. Jim felt like sleeping.

_Honour the King!_

He was so, so tired.

_Joey._

He shut his eyes, his breathing slowed, and he let the blackness swallow him whole.


End file.
